


‘In Which Severus Snape Throws a Tizzy’

by tigersilver



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-12
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:07:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigersilver/pseuds/tigersilver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus Snape indulges in a brief fit of ‘mental’. <i>What!?</i> He’s a pregnant male war hero, up the duff by a damned Dog—he’s allowed!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Title:** ‘In Which Severus Snape Throws a Tizzy’  
 **Author:** ??????  
 **Pairing(s)/character(s):** Sirius Black/Severus Snape  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Prompt#** Sirius and Severus have a casual affair (hate-sex if you like). None of them seems to be able to stop it–until Severus learns he is pregnant. However only wizards with a strong emotional connection (aka LOVE ♡) can conceive! Take this wherever you want: Does Severus change his behaviour towards Sirius? Does he tell him? Or not? Squicks: Bottom!Sirius and sad endings ;) for [](http://carolinelamb.livejournal.com/profile)[**carolinelamb**](http://carolinelamb.livejournal.com/)  
 **Word Count:** 13, 000  
 **Summary:** Severus Snape indulges in a brief fit of ‘mental’. _What!?_ He’s a pregnant male war hero, up the duff by a damned Dog—he’s allowed!  
 **Warnings:** Highlight to read*Mpreg, blathering and Ballistic!Snape. *  
 **Disclaimer:** Own nothing but what is clearly not canon.  
 **A/N:** Too many words, too few sexy times, sorry. Much fussing. My thanks and apologies to the kindest of Mods, for allowing an extension.

**Part One: [By Himself]**

 

_It was the best of times._

Dickens, that most verbose of Muggles, had had the right of it, Severus reflected, grimly eyeing his altered waistline in the mercifully (mostly) silent mirror.

 _It was the worst of times_.

He gritted his teeth and resettled the elegantly sumptuous robes he’d purchased on impulse just that afternoon. As a bit of treat to himself and also as a—dire!— necessity.

Thankfully, Maulkin, that old tabby, was discreet if nothing else. One all-encompassing look at Severus and she’d shooed them all out, the mums shopping for bargain offers, the browsing old biddies with an eye out more for a good gossip than a fashionable robe or a stray length of ruche-ing. There’d been no others lingering when she finally approached him; no pokey, curious eyes to see what he’d been reduced to—oh, sod that! Not ‘reduced’. No! More like _expanded_!--and honestly, he’d been extra-ultra-cautious about that recently, going out only at twilight or after and only to dimly-lit places, not that he’d much need to go out by himself, as he was always in company with bloody Dog now.

Severus turned this way and that, admiring. Maulkin had rather shown her mettle this afternoon; she still had the touch. Even _he_ didn’t come off as too terribly frumpy. Despite his…’condition’.

Speaking of…he’d venture to Muggle places, which the Dog seemed always to favour and he’d no objection, for where else might he pass as simply a middle-aged man with a middle-aged paunch? No, no. His secret was safe enough if no one peered too closely….excepting he himself was about to reveal it, in full. Make a clean breast—bare his all. Sod it. Sod it all.

His _all_? Well, he’d already bared it, hadn’t he? That being what had _delivered_ him to this sorry lot.

…He’d bared more ‘all’ than he’d ever actually _conceived_ of, evidently. Curses!

And…‘delivered’? For the sake of Merlin’s bloody bollocks, was his every thought, his every reference to revolve around his impending _patrimony_?

Sod bad puns. Sod the creeping sense of the utterly ridiculous, the unspeakably barmy the Dog had brought to him, like a dead rabbit presented upon his doorstep, right along with a suddenly rampant appetite and an unexpected passenger to leech it all up! It was all just…simply…

Grr!

 _Dog_.

Dog’s fault. Indubitably.

That Black! What a fucking wanker!

Severus grimaced harder, meaner, nastier, more evilly than anything ever attempted before—giving it his everything. So nastily-viciously-horrid about it his long-suffering dressing-room mirror image winced and shivered in passing terror, the silvery surface shimmering into uneven ripples as it twitched.

“What?” Severus snapped at it, glowering. “What’s with you, Mirror?”

 _“/…Erm,/”_ it spoke up, hesitantly. _“/D’you think you could, p’raps, possibly…ah? Go away now? Looked your fill, haven’t you?/”_

“No!” Severus shouted, feeling exceptionally nasty. “Absolutely not!”

 _“/Oh!/”_ The frame twisted, skewing itself as it the mirror were attempting to fold up on itself, like an envelop. A sensitive envelop, with feelings borrowed freely from the original. _/”Eek! Must you? Must you, really?/”_

“”Yessss?” Severus hissed, tapping a toe impatiently at his reflection. “There’s a problem?”

_/”Well…”/_

His reflection cringed, just a bit, wringing its hands, protecting its spreading middle. And frowned fiercely, as if in challenge.

_“/Oh, alright then. Be that way, see if I care./”_

It rippled again, possibly from spite.

“Hah! Stop that instantly, you ancient piece of shite,” Severus snarled at his distorting image. “Stay still, can’t you? Cease this silly twisting about, ninny. No— _coward_. If _I_ can look then so can _you!”_

 _“/Erp!/”_ The mirror balked once more, flinching.

“Be still! Buggering useless thing that you are.”

Severus snorted his disgust, doubling the effect in his wobbly reflection, perforce—it _was_ a mirror, of course it reflected _him. All_ of him, whether it willed it or no. But then Mirror-Snape visibly bridled, wall-eyed, both hands clutching at belly beneath new robes protectively, and set its jaw line to rigid, assuming the familiar expression Severus commonly employed to quell his rambunctious Thirdies.

</i>/“I say! Uncalled for!”/ </i> The mirror’s remaining surface and frame gradually returned to its smooth, bland original form, sobering itself up properly into utilitarian duty. Severus sighed, observing.

_/”Well?” Only fulfilling my role here, aren’t I? Go on, do.”/_

The po-faced Snape-mask his reflection had become raised its speaking black eyebrows at him. And not only the one but both eyebrows, the universal sign of ‘Professor Severus-Snape-is-more-than-mildly-appalled’. One long potions-stained hand patted Severus’s reflected looks-like-a-butterbeer-belly-but-isn’t quite, quite meaningfully.

_/“You were saying?”/_

There was an expectant silence. It dragged on far too long before the real Severus—the one who couldn’t hide in defective mirrors, the one who really was up the duff with Dog’s child—gulped, swallowed and sighed simultaneously, shoulders slumping.

“Bloody alright,” he muttered fretfully. “Yes, I know.”

_/”…Yes?”/_

“Yes, yes, alright, I know all of it; all I am afrai— _concerned_ with, thank you ever so, but…. **But**. I have to do this; I _must,”_ he informed himself grimly. “I simply must.” The patting ended in a vicious rub across his hidden navel. “I’ve no choice, have I? He deserves to know.” He scowled, glancing away to examine a crack in the plastered wall. His image did the same, naturally. “There’s no getting round it,” he informed the wall gloomily. “Think about it, you. He has to know. Dog does. I would, were I him.”

_/”Mmm./”_

Severus glanced away, uneasy. From the corner of his eye he could make out his image nodding slowly, solemnly—as if already disappointed. As if entirely unconvinced in advance Severus was really—finally—planning to clue in the other perpetrator .

_/“…And so?”/_

“No, really.”

Sucking in a deep calming breath, Severus attempted to meet his own mirrored eyes, to be excruciatingly calm and stonily unflinching and all that was proper for a Potions Master and an honoured survivor of the last Voldemort War. A veteran, for Merlin’s sake.

“ _Me,_ rather. I _should_ think, really I should, but…D’you know, I don’t think I have been, much.”

He heaved another sigh, a grand waft of despair.

He was _decorated_ , damn it. Order of Merlin, for gods-sake! He was accounted a bloody hero! (Stupid Potter! Landing in the midst of that silly ceremony and all because he’d the good sense and foresight not to expire of a simple snakebite—bah!)

He failed. Couldn’t meet his own eyes. How would ever meet Black’s, were he to try and tell him?

His image flushed guiltily and turned thin, pinched features away, scowling uncomfortably at any point in the room available other than the real Severus. It was…vastly uncomfortable, actually, not being able to stare himself down. Stare a simple reflecting device down, more like. Severus stomped a foot in reaction, frustrated.

He was…he was succumbing to his own chemistry, he was. Just as Poppy said he might.

How he hated hormones.

Severus inhaled great bracing gulp of clean air, faintly scented still with the silly Elven shower gel his usual caretakers had left him.

“Oh, please!” It was a cry for help—from _himself_ , bugger all. “Man _up_ , Severus, old chap. Belt up. Grow some bollocks, will you? Just…just _do_. Please. Do this for me.” Those reflected eyelids flickered softly; the reverse-image hand on his reverse-image belly curled and tensed, perversely.

“For…it.”

He couldn’t face himself, couldn’t even manage to gaze his fill at his own bloody image. He was but a bloody child, Severus thought balefully, pretending that if he couldn’t see it, then it wasn’t there.

“Bugger, bugger, bugger.”

Failed again. But he would do.

“I hate me.”

Would do, would do, would do—what he had to accomplish, what he must, what all that bloody honour a hero came freighted with called him to do.

“ _Bugger.”_

Through his teeth, Severus sighed again, blinking hard and mentally forcing his own chin up, even as his spine curled in, both forearms moving to curve protectively about the excess poundage visible at his waist. It instantly altered his reflection: he sagged where he stood and the bulge in his midriff was visibly larger, framed as it was by brand-new sleeving. More obvious.

Fail, fail, _fail_. Never in his life had he _failed_ so. So.

“Bear it,” he gritted, squaring his shoulders, staring at his own toes. “Bear down.”

Posture was all important; good posture was a must, Poppy had said. He attempted to wrench himself upright, but his own body was fighting him. It wanted only to curl up and perhaps die of shame.

“You _can_ , you idiot Wizard,” he kept on grimly, shuddering as he straightened, spine creaking and popping as he did. It was only himself before his furtive eyes, the Dog wasn’t even in the picture yet! If he couldn’t control himself, that what bloody hope had he? And yet—and yet!

“You can bear _anything_ ; old chap; haven’t you proved that?”

For all that was holy and all that was not, he could no longer run.

He could no longer hide, ignore, obfusticate, shrug off or delay. The Dog simply must know—must be told. Daddy Dog…sire…sodding father-to-be!

_“/Nh…/”_

Hesitating, his wide-eyed, pale-as-death-warmed-over image nodded at him, just the barest bob of chin.

No. Fathers-to-be. He was one. And Madame Maulkin—the knowing old puss—had unerringly kitted him out in _paternity_ robes. Without even asking his pleasure or preference. Final blow, wasn’t it? That a little old Witch could take one look at him and simply just _know?_

“Bear it, you fool!”

He gulped. His own words caught up to him, with all the grace of a herd of erumphant. Flushed scarlet. Posture might be everything, nuance was more than.

“Must, must, must simply--oh, gods. I did _not_ just say that!”

It was beyond rude to jest, even at his own tortured reflection, even in the privacy of his own rooms. Jocularity: the root of all evil. Curse the bloody fatuous doggy-brain who’d started this hare, then!

“Oh, gods, oh-gods, oh-gods, _not_ ‘bear it’, then—anything but that!” The mirror of him was making startled blowfish motions, opening and closing its mouth in pantomime: ‘How you could?’ Severus scowled at it; growled at it, wanted to rend his own bloody dressing room mirror from corner to corner and toss the wrecked kindling out the door for the elves to deal with. And in the interim, his own damned mouth ran on, unhelpfully. Burbling nonsense, when this was no laughing matter—far from it!

“Be serious, Severus!”

Before him his reflected eyes widened like the black holes of Hell itself. He brought both hands up slowly, clutching at his own head, shaking it, his mouth a rounded ‘O’ of flabbergasted shock. Some wee part of his functioning brain pinged cheerily—was this not just like another Muggle’s work, a painting he’d seen once?

…Munsch, was it?

“Fuckity-fuck!”

He halted, wide-eyed and gawping, and stared at his belly with glazed eyes. Parted his lips once or twice before he dug up the gumption to continue.

“…What am I even saying—there has to be a better way to say—to approach—to produce—oh, Merlin—I cannot believe?” They both shook dark heads, horrified, he and himself. How…gauche! How juvenile! Making a joke of it was not a solution. “Was that _another_ frigging pun?” he demanded of himself, poking the mirror. “It was! It bloody well was! He’s affecting me, the git! It’s all the damned Dog’s fault! He’s fucked me up!”

“…oh-gods. No!

“No, I _won’t_. Shan’t, no—uh-uh! No more, do you hear me? No more of this foolishness. Stop right now.”

He nodded. Twice. Both of him. Matter settled; he’d resist, then. No more stabs at black (oh-gawds!) humour, no more fall-flat puns. All there was to it.

“Blast and damn.”

Still nodding, his other self. Carefully, deliberately, but not at all as if his other self believed a word he was muttering, either. Not helpful. Wasn’t.

Asinine _Dog_.

Severus went on with his own private pep talk. It was for the best, really. He didn’t like talking to himself, but in lieu of the Dog—his real and intended audience, later—his reflection would have to make do.

“….face it then. That’s it.”

Well. He _was_ facing it, yes? He stared, eyes on that one particular bit of him that required facing. It—him—Them. _It!_

“Be a man, not a fecund mooncalf.”

Oh, but….all the round softness of it, all the taut feel of it, all the weight of it, nestled right below his heart. New clothes did not make the man…any different. Not substantially, no.

“I’m a Wizard, a perfectly respectable Wizard. And this was a perfectly respectable mistake, alright? I didn’t know! I didn’t…know.”

He looked a right sight, despite it: all teeth, actually, and flashing wide dark eyes, fringed lushly. Habitual scowl and equally normal sallowness, hollow-eyed, bags under them like luggage and twitchy as the damned Dog was on his caffeine habit. He was under stress and it showed itself. Much like the old days. Excepting….excepting, he wasn’t creeping about for fear of his fellow Death Eater’s ratting him out to Voldemort. No. No…it was far worse than that.

“Merlin help me.”

Dire.

“Merlin help _him_ , the shaggy-bottomed sod! Just you wait till I get my hands round that throat of his!”

It was what Black would say to him. When they met, as they’d fallen into the habit of meeting up come a Friday evening, every Friday evening, bar none. Or—and this was misery to contemplate—what he would _not_ say, because Black was notoriously inarticulate under any sort of real pressure. Hadn’t been able to talk his way out of Azkaban on a murder rap, had he? Hadn’t been able to civilly take his own beloved godson aside in a casual, non-threatening manner and explain that he never meant to harm him and really, what was all the fuss about? Hadn’t managed to say much about a lot of things—ever. His tongue seemed all but useless to him, the idiot, excepting for certain…physical…things.

Like licking. And (um) sucking. And…er. Well.

“That tongue of his!” Severus glared at his betraying flush, reflected. “Those fingers! That cock!”

Lupin. Whomping Willows. Betrayal. _Humiliation_. Lily….and Lily’s bloody damned spawn Harry Potter, who’d snuck up on an unwilling Severus when he wasn’t looking behind himself for once and then daringly been actively decent at him, after, the little git. Urged him to make peace, have a drink with his old enemy, Black—lay old bones to rest, as it were. Since old bones were back, in the form of Black.

“Bloody—stupid—Potter!”

Black had fussed, inevitably. Didn’t he always? Trademark trait, that.

“Dog’s damned godson, isn’t he?” Severus demanded of himself, reflected. “Must be his fault, then—all his fault! Silly cur must’ve taught him. Bloody Potter. Urgh!”

Fussed, _instead_ , did Black-the-Dog, and threw himself into the whole debacle, just like a Gryffindor. Played the martyr; dove in—rolled in it. Black bloody thrived on fuss. Ever the dramatic sod, was he. And ever the complicated and unnecessarily-so sod, as well.

“’Go out, Snape’, he said,” Severus mimicked grotesquely, “’and have some bloody fun for yourself. Live a little. You’ve earned it, haven’t you?’”

Nothing ever bloody simple. Drinks, awkward, more than awkward: tense—then drunk, naturally, both of them, soonest. Falling over furniture drunk, falling into one another drunk. Then cock, smiles, mumbles, sperm—all of those easy enough, once begun, yes, but not _simple_. Not straightforward.

“Ah, bah!”

Far-frigging-from it!

Which went nowhere at all in explaining _why_ Severus found him inexplicably attractive enough to then fall into bed with. It, in fact, said a great deal about the state of Severus—what he wanted; where he was going—much of which he’d no interest in hearing discussed, not even as recited to him by his own mental voice. Or Potter’s mental voice, either, for that matter.

Interfering little git, Potter. Always had been. Look where Potter’s good-intentioned advice had led him, eh? SWMW w/BB*, is what!

Maybe he’ll take it properly, like a real man, his mental voice had advised Severus. Black, that was, not Potter.

Hopefully, he’d thought that, very hopefully, though it was monumentally foolish to hope for any single thing where Black was concerned, because the git was contrary and willful like the wind. Maybe... (and this was his own hind-brain talking at him, jabbering on like a bloody jarvey), he’d thought, it’ll be as nothing to Black. An aberration easily gotten over. A bump in the road but not a huge one—not life-altering.

(A bump…a bump…a _bump_! Curse his own eyes for conjuring up a bloody Bump!)

They could…still ignore it? Mayhap…it would…go away?

Blinking abstractedly, Severus settled into a think. By all means he needed one, didn’t he?

His voice had ventured that possibility as possible, just before he’d bowed bitterly to the inevitable and gone out shopping…again. He, for one, couldn’t afford to ignore it. Not in the broad daylight of a late May Friday afternoon, which he’d been avoiding with the assiduousness of a damned vampire lately. Sunny—fair—miserable weather, really—bah! _And_ for good reason.

Wizards who went travelling abroad, leaving the relative safety of their familiar dungeons and carrying about the innocent unborn in their mid-life paunches were not exactly the norm just yet, were they? The streets hardly abounded with such as he. He’d be laughingstock, especially if he ran across any of his old students. Potter, for example. Young Malfoy.

Gods forbid, _not_ Granger!

Bloody Potter, though. It was _his_ damned godfather was the cause of this!

“Have drinks,” Potter had said to him. “Just…you know….drinks. Talk. Er…? Make peace?”

And Severus himself. He’d been to blame.

Make love, more like!

Never doubt it, it had been Severus himself who was the real cause. It couldn’t be denied; he’d not dream of it. If Albus had taught him anything, it wasn’t to lie to himself. It was his own sodding bed he’d made—with much nicer sheeting now, granted, now the Dog was snoring there on a regular basis—and now he must lay in it….or rather, not lay, nor lie. Tell the truth and nothing but. To the idiot Dog. (But not Potter—never Potter!)

The…er. _Sire._ As he—apparently—was to be the damned _dam_! Blast and damn and bugger!

“Puppy!”

Severus chuckled aloud, darkly. He could see his bed, behind him, and likely the site of the massacre of his peace, fancy sheets and all. Could’ve been Black’s bed, but likely it was here, in Hogwarts. All those teenaged pheromones, running about, influencing mid-life interrupted idiots like himself and the Dog

“I’m having a bloody puppy, I am!” The note of hysteria he heard issuing from his own mouth didn’t escape Severus for a second.

Bloody bed, bloody Dog, bloody Voice!

“Thank frigging Brede it’s not a litter of them, eh, Mirror?”

Severus hated it when his mental Voice—who, come to think, came across as a mix of old Albus on his very worst days of lemon-drop barmy and Poppy, at her most giggly-bint-post-Battle-Staff-party-self—butted into his head proper and proceeded to sway the rest of him in some direction he’d absolutely no wish to go. His mental Voice had no compunction about twisting the facts to suit; his mental Voice was a fucking twat, that’s what. Mental!

It had said blithely, upon coming across a willing Black—and he recalled this part clearly—‘Oh, why ever not, Severus? Have a little fun, why don’t you?’

And when Severus had stumbled into the man in the way-back, dart’s-end dim corner of the Leaky, by chance or mayhap due Potter’s puerile schoolboy machinations, it had led him to downing shots of fiery liquids with great and unnatural abandon and then all but shoved him into bed (up against the wall, in the loo, actually, but no matter) with the exasperating, canine-minded, do-gooding, Unspeakable git after. And it had claimed, weeks ago now—and soppily _, and_ taking a dip into the utter perverse—that the whole stupid situation of a pregnant Wizard was alright, really. Was. Alright! To be going on with! As was the sex and the drinking, the laughing at nothing—the company and all that came along with.

Fuss, was it. It was!

Lately, it had whispered seductively in his inner ear that he’d always really rather wished after a sprog of his own to care for—(“Hah!” Severus snorted aloud again, despising it heartily, the Voice)—and that it wouldn’t be such an awful thing, the sprog being half the fussy git’s get.

Good blood there. Not like Snape’s own, at least.

Git _was_ a fine looking man—crazy as a loon, yes--and a quite decent Wizard, wasn’t he? Git was charming, where Severus decidedly wasn’t. Git even had a Position of Importance in the Ministry—something research-based in DOM, which made sense really, as he’d been ‘something in DOM’ whilst trapped in the Veil. Unspeakable Black, indeed!

Karmic, really. It figured.

Severus sighed; he did that often, lately. Rubbed his blasted belly, which thankfully didn’t shift or even burble. That hadn’t yet started but he knew it was coming. He’d always had a sneaking suspicious he’d come a’scupper over bloody Black…

Git was beloved by all, even crazy as a loon. Which Severus definitely wasn’t. Make a good parent, which Severus might also. Just might.

“I’m fat.”

Crazy, though. Maybe _he_ was too, at that.

“Oh, god, I am. One look at me and he’ll know, I just know it!”

What _had_ he been thinking? Had he been thinking at all, actually? Clearly not. He’d been bedded by Black and that was absolutely the side-effect of not-thinking.

“These bloody robes! What was that old pussy thinking, stuffing me into these? They’re two sizes too small!”

Or thinking in circles or loops.

“I’ve never, ever, in my whole life, been fat.”

Or feeling instead…which was dangerous.

“No. I am not fat—I am pregnant, blast me. I’m also too old for this,” Severus sighed. “I’m old. I’m not…pretty.”

He was all sighed out—he felt flat, which he _wasn’t_. Though, granted, only in one place was he fat. “Not pretty like him, the arse bandit.”

His reflection winked merrily at him—which was really rather unconscionable of it, but so. Always did have an eyes for a pretty face, hadn’t he? Just look to Lily…dear Lily. She’d never had done this to him!

“Bother. Too old to go through with this and it doesn’t suit me. I look…fat. I do. Maybe he’ll not notice?” The mirror shrugged its gilded corners, wisely keeping mum. He blinked. “And tired. I’m bloody well exhausted; of course I look tired! Wait! Did I say that already? I did, yes. Mind’s going, too. Stupid sodding hormones. And I never should’ve…what in the name of sweet Circe _was_ I thinking? I wasn’t thinking, that’s what!”

He could say this _ad nauseum_ —and yes, he’d been a bitty squiffy about the gills lately, thanks ever so, Mother Nature, Father Black—but it made not a whit of difference. Not a whit.

“Right, here goes.” He raised an arm in a brand new sleeve dramatically, gesturing towards the waiting hearth. “Dog, in ten. Must—belt—up, Severus. Must!”

Dropped the hand abruptly and tightened his belt gingerly—a brown leather one he’d purchased at the Muggle emporium Harrod’s, in Men’s, in order to sustain the equally Muggle denims he wore close-tight about his thin hips. At least that section of his anatomy was still trim and happily the same as ever—boney and jutting out, yes, but then he’d never been fat.

He was _now_.

“Can’t avoid it, can’t do anything other than this,” he muttered darkly. “Simply. Must. Go!”

….Not scrawny either, precisely, but not anything near the annoying bursting-of-health look his old enemies the Marauders had practically beamed of, back in the day. No, even then, in the first fine flush of youth, he’d been a scraggly sort of soul. Angular and all elbows. Painfully tall and painfully sharp-edged. Thin-skinned, picky and pale as a proper dungeon-resident should be. Black admitted to having been…interested, then.

“Wiil. Go.”

Severus had been appalled. How dared he, randy cur?

“Was. Not. _Thinking_. Shame!”

He’d had another shot, just to bear the concept of Black finding his younger self attractive.

“You’re the one had your pants down in a trice, didn’t you?” Severus looked up sharply, grimacing at his reflection. “Randy sod. Desperate.”

Black had shrugged, had winked. Had drank—er, drunk. His pale throat had moved sinuously as he quaffed and Severus clearly recalled his own mouth going dry as dust and his cock revivifying with a vengeance. All those years walking about with nil sex drive and then that? That bloody blast of hormones, practically swamping him where he sat, staring with slobbering hunger at Dog’s throat? Aching for him. Wanting his cock down it more fervently than ever he’d wanted anything ever before?

Severus, all at once suddenly prone to hormonal attacks, flushed scarlet…with remembered humiliation.

“What was I—blind? _I_ don’t think.”

Oh-god-no! He’d been doomed from the start! He wasn’t Black’s usual sort—no, not at all. Milk-white skin, with never a blemish, yes, check. Large dark eyes, given to being veiled by equally long dark lashes—okay, right. So? His mother had always claimed he’d the finest set of eyes—the most speaking—in either side of his mucked-up family tree. Much good they’d done him, though, when it came down to making a case for himself. No one had ever believed him. They’d not looked past the way his too-thin lips twisted into an absentminded scowl; they’d not been effective at all in swaying the love of his life when he was pleading, nor ever useful on that old sodding wily git Albus, when he was pleading again. Later.

“Botheration.”

He’d not been aware they even still spoke at all till Black remarked upon it, a month later. He’d already been up the damned duff by then and hadn’t even known it, so lost was he in sensation.

“Shame on you, Severus, for being a fool.”

It was only a fool that couldn’t face himself in a common-garden household mirror, wasn’t it?

Only Black had ever mentioned them favourably, after Severus’s mother departed. Had said he thought they were…thought they were….

Attractive.

Severus swallowed; watched himself swallow, his Adam’s apple moving painfully against the starchiness of his new collar-buttons. He never recalled being considered particularly attractive. Before Black.

“An easily swayed fool and a too-old-for it one. Frigging idiot!”

It was a mystery to him, that chaos which inexplicable passion wrought. In bed with a Dog, one that nuzzled and didn’t nip—he was done for.

“Idiot Dog, more like. Blind, blind, blind. Ruined for life, I don’t doubt. Azkaban, of all things! No wonder!”

He simply couldn’t bring himself to muster any self-sympathy; he rubbed at his belly instead. Sighing.

“Shite . I’m tardy. Blast.”

With an impatient gesture and his teeth clamped together hard, sucking it in, he tucked in the button-down he’d bought to go with the fashionable denim trousers. All was stiff and starchy, brand new---all was hampering and odd.

Strange way of fastening up; weird how it clung to him, his garb. He was used to robes and capacious ones at that. Ones that billowed nicely; made a statement. But Black aped the Muggle look constantly, with his worn-out old blue jeans and his slovenly t-shirts, his long black beaten-up leather duster and that silly damned fedora. Went along perfectly with the look of the loud petrol-smelling monster; went with the fact Black was a dog on the loose of its leash.

“…Time to face the music, I s’pose…”

‘Course, Black in his elegant Unspeakable robes was an entirely different matter. Buttons! Shiny…and then the trim, all black velvet piping on gunmetal grey—ah…yes. Well. Striking.

It wouldn’t hurt, Severus had thought—the Voice _said_ —to take a step or two in the direction of middle-arena and maybe wear something other than his old fusty black robes for once when he was meeting up with Black. As the trousers—stiff though they—clung to his bum, attractively. The salesgirl had said. And the shirt was properly fitted—had cost the earth in those newfangled Muggle Euros, too, so it should, being very dear—and the finely worked Italian-made belt showcased a waist that wasn’t quite—wasn’t quite entirely stretched out of shape. Only a little fat---just there.

The salesgirl hadn’t noticed he was up the duff. Fortunately.

“I despise music. I despise talking.”

Severus regarded himself one last time, turning this way and that, peering hard.

“I despise _music_ while I’m talking.”

That aside—fancy. It seemed Muggle clothes rather suited him. He was hardly a clothes horse—had never been—but…attractive, Black had said, hadn’t he?

“I hope I look—no, I don’t!” He ground his heel into the carpet, scowling thunder. Even his boots were new; matched his belt—exact same shade. They would likely begin to hurt soon; his feet had a nasty tendency to swell. Poppy had said it would get better; Severus had no faith in that. “I don’t bloody well care, alright? I don’t care!” he snapped his teeth on each syllable. “So what if I’m—if he’s—I. Don’t. Care!”

 _You’re late! He’ll be waiting on you!_ sang the Voice. Bloody Voice.

“Don’t care.”

It was most definitely the worst of times. Severus nodded grim at his reflection, cursing them all—all times, but especially this one. Because now, without fail (he’d already pushed it way too long, really) he would be called upon to explain to Black the whole silly-horrid situation and Black would then be called up to—called up to—

To act. Fuss. Act fussily. At _him_.

“Blast,” Severus eyed himself one last time. “No, this is unbearable. I don’t want to.” He would do, he supposed, as well as any man would do when in his forties, three months gone, and worse for the wear of it. “At least it’s not as visible as before; there’s that.”

When three months gone with an unlooked-for and really very much unwanted pregnancy.

“My robe’s alright. I guess.”

When faced with explaining the above to an unnecessarily over-dramatic, fussy-by-nature, not-quite-boyfriend Dog-man.

Er…lover. No…male acquaintance with side benefits. Who barked. How humiliating! How…unwanted.

Charming arse. Loud mouth, said nothing worth noting.

“Blast.”

Alright…not unwanted, either. More like…shocking. _Woof_!

Severus swallowed hard; _he_ was in shock. He’d worked his way up to it, which was very unlike him, but _he_ wasn’t like _him_ anymore. _He_ was now like _Them._

All the Dog’s doing.

“Blast, I said!”

The mirror flinched back. Stared at him with great concern. Very _un_ Slytherin—very much _un_ Snape.

“No. Really. I can’t be doing this; I can’t.”

He needed a cuppa more than a pint. He needed it something awful and it was starting to look like it would be a bloody miracle if he could sort what he needed from what was. He could only imagine how difficult his life would be for the next few hours—maybe only minutes, if Black panicked right off, which he could do—being horribly, evilly, terribly difficult and nasty. Fussing; making more of a mess.

“ _Double_ blast,” Severus remarked bitterly, damning the universe, and spun to DisApparate. “I _hate_ this. **Triple** —!”

Now he was in for it.

[ Part Two: In Which Severus Snape Throws a Tizzy](http://sirius-black.livejournal.com/183905.html)   



	2. ‘In Which Severus Snape Throws a Tizzy’

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Severus Snape indulges in a brief fit of ‘mental’. _What!?_ He’s a pregnant male war hero, up the duff by a damned Dog—he’s allowed!

**Title:** ‘In Which Severus Snape Throws a Tizzy’  
 **Author:** ?????  
 **Pairing(s)/character(s):** Sirius Black/Severus Snape  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Prompt#** Sirius and Severus have a casual affair (hate-sex if you like). None of them seems to be able to stop it–until Severus learns he is pregnant. However only wizards with a strong emotional connection (aka LOVE ♡) can conceive! Take this wherever you want: Does Severus change his behaviour towards Sirius? Does he tell him? Or not? Squicks: Bottom!Sirius and sad endings ;) for [](http://carolinelamb.livejournal.com/profile)[**carolinelamb**](http://carolinelamb.livejournal.com/)  
 **Word Count:** 13, 000  
 **Summary:** Severus Snape indulges in a brief fit of ‘mental’. _What!?_ He’s a pregnant male war hero, up the duff by a damned Dog—he’s allowed!  
 **Warnings:** Highlight to read*Mpreg, blathering and Ballistic!Snape. *  
 **Disclaimer:** Own nothing but what is clearly not canon.  
 **A/N:** Too many words, too few sexy times, sorry. Much fussing. My thanks and apologies to the kindest of Mods, for allowing an extension.

 

: **Part Two [And Then With Others]**

 

“…Was beginning to think you weren’t planning to show.”

Black was ever the rude one; his quirked eyebrow not-quite leer was most definitely so. Severus slid in to the seat opposite him and carefully set his mug of milky tea on the sticky surface of the table, folding up his lips sedately into a rapier-thin line. Really, it wouldn’t take much for old Tom to cast a self-cleaning spell on the surface of his surfaces but it seemed he never did. Severus sniffed, partly over the grime and partly over Black’s disconcertingly assessing stare.

“I was growing...lonely.”

He blinked dark speaking eyes at Severus and his expression changed from what might be hints of mockery (for himself? For Severus?) to what might be nothing more than the conveyance of the gods’ honest truth. Whichever it was, it left Severus comfortably warm inside. He shifted his arse on the hard wood, relaxing just a little, and rearranged his mug just so.

“Sod off. I’m here, am I not?”

“Hmm.”

He sneered at Black, but amicably. It wasn’t Black’s fault Tom was a lousy housekeeper. And he had never been overly fond of the easy, blowsy atmosphere of the Leaky but where else was a Wizard to drink? Not that he was able. Not for some time to come. Seven and half months, give or take a day. He shivered, not liking what would come next, as inevitably as rain was followed by mud.

“…Black,” he added, after a small pregnant pause, and really, only to be polite. “You look well enough.”

“Severus,” Black winked. Blinked meaningfully (but what meaning? Severus wondered) and took a good long gander at Severus. “Everything…alright?”

“Of course,” Severus shrugged. Frowned fleetingly. _No_. “Yes.”

“O…kay. Alright, keep your hair on,” a pint glass was tipped casually his way, on its way to Black’s lips. A gulp, a long swallow and then Black was lounging back at ease, eyes level. “I was only asking.”

Black dipped of his cleft chin in deference to Severus’s mood—maybe—but he was looking straight to Severus’s tea, gently steaming and darkly stewed, just the way he liked it. And doused with far too much cream, which was a departure from the norm. He’d always been a lemon man; now, it seemed, the life inside of him craved dairy.

“I know that.” Severus glared. “Idiot.”

“That’s not your usual, is all.”

He’d been consuming cheese like no one’s business, actually; the Hogwarts elves could barely keep him in it.

“You don’t care for cream.”

“No, it isn’t. Any reason I can’t drink what I want, Black? When I desire?”

“No…of course not. Wasn’t saying you couldn’t, Sev.”

“Do _not_ address me as ‘Sev’, Black.”

“—drink anything you like, I don’t care, but…everything _is_ alright, right? You feeling well?”

“Just.” Severus nodded, distracted by thoughts of a nice Stilton, all veined and fragrant with delicious mould. Spread with preserves, it would make delicious snack. “Peachy,” he vouchsafed, doing his best not to sound sour or snappish. Though he felt both. “Use Severus if you can’t use Snape.” He was hungry again; he was always hungry. Curse the Dog for leaving him always hungry! “Why wouldn’t it be?” he growled, recalling Black’s prodding suddenly. “Why wouldn’t _I_ be, hmm?”

“Hmm. Alrighty, then. And I can always use some…fresh Severus…if you know what I mean.”

Black leered; it was humiliating. Warming to the bone; frightful.

He liked it. How contrary. So much so that Severus was visited by the very fleeting wish that Black would just _know_. That he’d have no need to explain a single sodding thing about ramifications of unprotected Snape-Dog sex and they could just brush this under the carpet, as it were.

“…Black?”

The Elves _had_ installed a new carpet. In his quarters. It was quite…nice.

“No reason.” Black’s eyes travelled down and up Severus, or what he could see of him, which wasn’t the part of Severus that would give anything away. He shifted, unhunching his shoulders and puffing out his chest. Sucking it in. Black’s eyes widened appreciably. “You seem…a bit off, that’s all. More than usual. Bad day at the office, dearie?”

“Shut—oh!”

Severus scowled, clamping down on the spate of words that would inform Black it was no business of his Severus was ‘off’, as he put it. For the majority of their renewed acquaintance he’d been ‘off’, if one were to think of It that way—must’ve happened early on, Poppy said. Besides, it was always a bad day at ‘the office’, at least for a restored Potions prof. Though he’d toned down his hatred of his hapless students these last two years. Funny how living instead of dying would do that to one—render a stern man softer than butter—oh, for some cheese!—and leave him wanting a bit more than just the bared bones of life.

Which was precisely what landed him in trouble, _Trouble_ being a thin scruffy bloke with a very scruffy chequered past, who was still—still! And this galled Severus quite a bit—handsome as ever handsome does, despite everything. In uniform.

Buttons…and cheese. Damn and blast.

Longing for life. He’d not even know he still felt that. Could feel it. Had thought he’d been duly and dully resigned to his inevitable fate. Albus had really done a number on him that way—no, that had been old Tom Riddle.

“Sev?”

He really had to learn to lay blame properly. He did. And perhaps examine all his motives as opposed to only some of them. Where was that damned Voice?

“You with me, here?”

Course, he had. Recently. A father should know what he planned to teach his child and now Severus—come seven months, give or take a few days, really it might just be seven—would be a father, indubitably.

Made absolutely no sense then, why he’d done what he’d done. But little enough made sense in a world that didn’t feature mad Riddles and madder Potters. Because he could at least allot some of the blame for this to Potter.

“Earth to Snape.”

And Potter’s pet mad-as-houses Black Dog, spewed out form the Veil in DOM like bloody magical vomit, entirely after the fact. Only slightly the barmier for the experience. Barmy enough to shag Severus.

“Oh, for the love of—I’m _thinking_ , can’t you see?”

It was the barmy bit that had brought them together, Severus was sure of it. Black—never entirely sane on the best of days—had been quite discernibly wonkier after the dying-not dying. As had _he_. It had lead to a craving for strong drink and also for sex. Mindless sex. A great amount of it, soonest.

“Good to know, then.”

It was inevitable they’d both fetch up in the Leaky for the drinking bit.

“Looks like brooding. You brooding, Sev?”

It was undeniable they both had not much choice when it came to suitable partners for the sex-soonest bit, being relicts of an age where such things had been frowned upon by a blinkered society. Riddle again. And—this too, was horridly valid—being of an age-and- state where callow youth and good looks were no longer at the forefront of one’s sexual appetites.

Alright, good looks were still on. Yes. Buttons. Black on grey on Black.

He’d wanted someone familiar to bonk; surely that was understandable? Sex equated some sort of intimacy. And all his intimates were pretty much dead or—it was increasingly clear—the wrong gender entirely.

Poppy, for instance. She was deary-dear, cuddly as a Puffskein, but…he couldn’t even begin to fathom removing her voluminous knickers with an eye towards poking through what was like a thatched-roof’s worth of grey curls, not just for some passing satisfaction and physical pleasure. And…urk!...a ramification, perhaps.

Nor Minerva. Dear Minerva. No. The very thought made him shudder.

Remus was dead, tragically.

“Wh-what?”

Lucius in Azkaban for some time to come. He and Narcissa had always been friends of a sort but not that sort.

“What _are_ you on about? Oh—forget it, I don’t want to know. I have to—I must—”

The children were children still, even rising age twenty. Urgh! Potter! Green eyes or no! No!

“…Yes?”

“I have—ahem,” Severus decided abruptly that now was the time, before the time slipped away again, as it always seemed to with Black. “Something to say to you—”

“You changed your hair,” Black stated baldly. “That’s it!” He grinned cheekily and sat back at his ease, cradling his pint in his long-fingered hands. “Looking good, mate.”

“I didn’t!” Severus, forestalled, instantly objected. “Well…I did,” he admitted when Black cocked a slash of a brow at him, questioning. “But only because of the damned Elves!” he sighed, hand going straight to his belly under the table. “They leave…things.”

“Suits.”

With the advent of a man in Severus’s life, the Elves had gone just as barmier as anyone else Severus knew. His quarters—they’d redone his quarters entirely. Painted them cream and teal and added lashings of useless fribbly pillows and a tufted hunter green upholstered loveseat before the parlour hearth. His private lav had suddenly featured ‘product’ by the bushels-full: bath salts not of his own brewing, bottles and vials and such with Muggle brands plastered on them like Redkin and Garnier. Atrocious!

He’d discovered a vial of cologne on his bureau, for Merlin’s sake, sitting there innocuously enough, yes, but he knew who to blame for the impertinence—Winky or Blinky or Nod, the sly little bastards, tarting him up cause he’d got some!

He must reek, that’s what. Of Dog.

Worse yet, it was becoming quite apparent they _knew_. By which he meant that Kreacher—good old nasty-arse traitor Kreacher—made sure to serve him only the most generous of portions when he dined at Black’s house and—and!—provide him an extra helping of pudding, after. And…cheese. Which was where he’d gained the taste for Stilton, thanks ever so.

Kreacher, that traitorous, wretched sod—he knew. And Black didn’t.

Nod, Blinky and What’sIt also knew, naturally. And what was worse, they’d known before he had!

It was galling.

Black was an Unspeakable—he should know, shouldn’t he? Part of the job description, wasn’t it?

“I like it. Does good things for you, Sev. Erm…very good. Tasty.”

Dog leered again, which was highly unsettling.

“That’s not important!” Severus struggled manfully to get back to track. And bloody stick to it, despite the confusing arsewipe smiling at him so fondly. They’d no reason to be fond; this was purely physical. “My hair is the least of my worries, you—you!” He’d a confession—oh, yes, that was it. It wouldn’t be pretty, but he must forthwith grit his teeth, bear down and get on with it. “I have to tell you, Black, I’ve—we’ve—it’s. I mean,” he looked up and stared Black straight in those cornflower blue eyes of his—no, Welsh eyes. Had to be Welsh; the sea stuck in with a liberal finger. So blue they defied logic. “ _I’ve_ —”

“Been to the shops, I see.” Black grinned expansively and Severus spared a thought to the man’s mouth. It was a dangerous place, that mouth. Lying, cheating, likely—he was a charmer, wasn’t he? Unspeakables—they traded in charm. Oozed it. And no one had ever stated they were exclusive—but above all, dangerous. “Nice to see you spending a little of that fortune Albus left you, the one you’ve been hoarding all this time, Sev. Time to live a little, isn’t it?”

He gestured large with his pint and Severus couldn’t help but glance about them. The Leaky was packed with Friday night drinkers: young clubbers oiling themselves up before diving into the social whirlwind, older couples sharing a pint, friends and family…lovers, too.

Lovers, too. Bad word, that.

“What? _No_!”

Severus choked.

It wasn’t easy to keep his hand steady when he took up his cooling tea for a hasty sip. But he did so. He needed something to disguise the insane quirk blooming on lips. Something bracing, to aid him in enduring Black. Because he would laugh in a moment, likely hysterically, because Black was _his_ \--

Befuddling Black.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I have…recently…been…stocking up—”

“Is that what you call, it, Sev?’” Black chuckled. Shiny, his teeth were, flashing like that.

“Stocking up,” Severus continued firmly, glaring and blinking hurriedly, “on a few basic necessities—”

“Like those shorts you’ve just bought,” Black nodded sapiently, a wicked gleam in his eye. “I do happen to fancy the feel of silk, Severus—how ever did you know? And forest green becomes you. Brings out your arse dimples.”

“Not the shorts!” Severus snapped back. “Hah! As if I’d ever go out with the intent to purchase underclothing that would deliberately appeal to your deviant tastes, Black—as if!”

He harrumphed, triumphant—and then snarled, though quietly. “And, you bloody nuisance, I do not possess dimples on my arse!”

“Of course you do, Severus. And of course you would, love,” Black was all smiles now, and patting a proud hand on the bulge beneath his flies. “Just as I have. See? New—the Levi’s. Clean, too. Washed once, so you can erase that look from your face, darling. And five button; so, yeah, easy access. You’ll like them—they cling a bit, don’t they? And you like what they cling to, don’t you—as we both know.”

“Oh-gods-give me mercy!” Severus breathed, eyes narrowed in pain. “Please-be-to-Brede!’ He nearly dropped his tortured brain on the table but there were mugs and rings left by empties and it was sticky. “Shut your mouth, Dog,” he said instead, handsomely bearing up even as he shuddered “Please. For the love of all that’s holy.”

His tea cup trembled in his hand, he was that upset. Dog, of course, didn’t seem to note it.

“Done us good, I think,” Black blathered on, unheeding as always, trailing come-hither fingers up the indent of his breastbone. The fabric of his t-shirt was quite thin and quite worn despite the brand-new state of his other garments. Nipples poked pertly; Severus could make them out clearly. They even cast little shadows, which left his mouth dry. He hastily sipped at his tea and swallowed hard.

“…Feels like…oh, I dunno,” the Dog shrugged, lifting his gaze to stare into the middle distance, away from Severus at last and across the length of the room. The crowd milled and chattered but Severus only heard Black, only saw…Black. “I dunno…” he repeated softly, and Severus set his jaw. “It’s…different, at least.”

Someone _had_ to say it, didn’t they? Yes. They must.

Severus swallowed again., round a lump. A mysterious one.

“Feels like living, is it,” he stated grimly, squaring his shoulders disagreeably. “Which is as it should be, fool. I hardly think _I_ am to be blamed for a spot of indulgence, after all those long years in service to the Order—“

“No one blames you, mate,” Blacks eyes were back on him in a flash. “Least of all me. Shop all you like, do. Relax. Er?”

“I don’t shop for pleasure, Black!” For some reason this was important to point out. Severus glared to prove it.

“Er, though?”

“What?”

Severus huffed; he’d been just working up a good head of steam on a subject that was hardly relevant to their reasons for being together—at all, _ever_ , but especially this particular evening—and he despised being diverted, once begun on a favourite topic.

“Hmm. Um…” Black scratched his belly, then his head and last his upper lip. He sipped, eyeing Severus cautiously.

“ _Yes_!? What _now,_ Black?”

“Have you eaten yet? You look…hungry.” Black blinked across the table at him, demure as pudding-pie. ”As am I. Very.”

“…No.” This was grudging. “Not hungry.” In truth, he’d had butterflies or some such wifty flying creatures inhabiting his midsection from the moment he’d noticed—in Madame Maulkin’s, no less—his old robes and pants weren’t even close to fitting properly. That he’d bitten the bullet proverbially and just in time, what with this shopping binge.

“You’re always hungry lately, love,” Sirius nodded, adopting that vaguely frightening Buddha-smile he’d taken on recently. “Or so I’ve noticed.”

“Er?” Severus had lost track completely. “What?”

He never went shopping. He preferred Owl order if absolutely had to purchase personal garments. Venturing out to the public venues was beneath him, a waste of his precious time. He could’ve been brewing or marking up papers or…brooding. Oh-gods. The utter shame of it.

Black reached right across the table and jabbed him. Gently, yes, but right in his startled sternum.

“Severus. Love.”

Which returned him squarely to his problem _du jour_ : telling Black. Before eating or he’d likely sick up.

“ _Don’t_ call me that!”

“Alright. Whatever you want, love…but. We should still...likely…” Black rose, carelessly shoving away his chair and ignoring Severus’s minor snipe over casual endearments.

“Eh?”

“…We should…” Drained his pint in one swallow and extended a free hand out to Severus, waving it impatiently under his wrinkled nose. “Go find some grub now. Must keep your strength up, right?’

“Wh-what? Excuse me?” Severus was taken aback, pretty much as he always was whenever they chanced to take a meal together. Not that it was so much ‘chance’ these days. More inevitable, as a prelim to shagging. Shameful! Well, he certainly wasn’t going to make it easy. “I’ve only just arrived!” He’d never thought to dine with Black amicably before the end of the…unpleasantness—but then, he’d never thought to be bearing Black’s unborn spawn either. Severus gulped, realizing belatedly he’d set himself up for this, again. Apparently unconsciously. “I’ve still most of glass here Black. And—and, mind you—I was speaking, you realize; had something of importance to say to you, cur, and now you’ve gone and interrupted—you’re a truly lousy date, you know that? Rude and impetuous and—”

“Date, heh!” Black chuckled. “Good on you, love. Yes, I am that, and not so bad either. But. You still look peaked, Sev.” Black tilted his head, considering. “Needy.” Nodded abruptly and clasped Severus’s wrist. “Can’t bear that. Not on you, not now, Sev. That’s it. Come along—food will buck you right up. Put a little colour in those wan cheeks of yours. Not that I don’t find the pale you terribly attractive and sexy as skinny sin on a kebab, love, but—more meat needed, now. Red, bloody meat. _On_ your bones, not hanging off them.”

Severus recalled that he’d never quite managed to fathom Black. He’d always bollixed it up somewhere along the way. Got it wrong; assumed incorrectly.

“Pardon? Wait a—what are you?! I _don’t_ want—why must you always, always _fuss_?”

“Come on now.”

The hand summarily yanked at Severus’s wrist and snaked up it, the slide of fingertips leaving his knees weak in their stiff new trousers. Black heaved, putting his back into it, Black did, and hauled Severus up willy-nilly but with care.

“Carefully. Mind you don’t tip that glass over.”

“Look. Black—” Severus began, growling as he was dragged. “This is nonsensical. I only came here to tell you something—”

“Never mind that, love. Food, now. Tell me later, yeah? Promise I’ll listen, I will.”

“Oh—but?! Black!”

Severus stumbled—and caught himself. He had to remember always that accidental bumping wasn’t good. For the Bump. Not for Baby Dog-Snape-Thingie (the Voice would like very much to know what to call It; never mind that!) and not for him.

“Black, there’s no need to—”

Black interrupted. As usual. And grinned at Severus, which created a silly mad maelstrom in his middle.

“I’m a dog, you know? I like…meat. Meat...to chew and to lip and to fondle, don’t you know.” Impossible Dog. "And you,” Black winked, “could do with a mite more of it. Come on, don’t dawdle now.”

Severus scowled. Dug his heels in, as best as he could off-balance.

“No! Shut up. You’re bloody well impossible!”

He scowled at the table, just for being there—well, currently being almost behind them, in passing. He transferred the same scowl back to Black—leering again, the git—for the same. Being there.

“Stop your useless quibbling, mate,” Black chided, coming round the table to link arms with a startled Severus. Well, one arm—the other went easily round Severus’s waist, pinching it at a fold which hadn’t been there before Black, blast him. “You know I’m right, don’t you? A man’s got to eat, doesn’t he? Especially a man who’s—”

He stopped, all the sudden, and Severus stared at him sideways, suspicious.

“A man who is…what, Black? What, exactly?”

“Hmm. No.” Black shook his head judiciously, his face thoughtful and serious, though he never eased up on the pressure he was exerting on Severus protesting elbow. “No…not yet, I think.”

“Yes?” Severus prodded. “No? Tell me. A man’s got to do _what_ , Black?”

He was treated to the blinding—charming—daft-mad-grin, the sort that dazzled bystanders, even now. Like buttons, but better.

“Never you mind. Ease off, Sev,” the oily, sneaky, lying and probably (likely) cheating cur replied, all too quickly, oily ooze that his was, in his black leather and his Muggle motorcycle boots. “Don’t get your dander up, alright?” Smoothly, like he’d rehearsed ‘lessons in keeping one Master Snape sweet’ in his spare time. Severus frowned instead of scowling-not much change there, but still—suspicions rampant. “It’s only dinner I’m offering you,” the ready smile never faltered. “For now. Even _you_ can manage a dinner with me. And, erm, more, too. Dessert course. Pudding, eh?”

“Black!” Severus was appalled.

“Proved that, haven’t we?” Black was cheeky. Unrepentant, too. “Come along, then. Try to be civil.”

“But!” Severus dug his heels in to the tatty old carpet, resisting. “I simply must tell you, Black—before we go a step farther—this is important—crucial—need to know basis. Listen, will you?”

How could despair swamp him so exactly when but a moment ago he’d been irate only? Probably because now was the time—before they went further, before they went on and Black all unsuspecting—

”Later, mate,” Black towed him along competently, steering him toward the floo. “Later, man. Mañana. Not the war, any more. Nothing pressing, no major drama, so, hey…laters. We’ll get to it, hey-yah? Everything’s better when your belly’s full, trust me. Perspective, emotions, life…all that. Relax.”

He dropped an encouraging kiss to prove it (maybe, likely?) behind Severus’s ear as he ushered him through the floo, shouting “Hogsmeade Arms, if you please!” and liberally scattering excessive powder.

No one seemed to be noticing them going. Snape was duly grateful as he twisted automatically; why broadcast his foolishness to a cruel, cruel world? His…his attack of the sillies, because he must’ve been mad to ever shag this man—this Dog!

“ _Perspective_!” Severus’s resultant gawp—anger, panic?—nearly gained him a mouth of ash as they whirled away, scattering syllables to random chimneys. “What the—?”

“Uh-huh,” It was a deep rumble in his ear, close by and hard up. Comforting, though Severus didn’t like to admit that. “Easy, now; lean on me. Deep breath, now.” Black was a bastard, he was. Severus had always known it. “You’re alright.”

“Emo—I’m not emotional, Black!”

“Hm.”

“Oh-gods-I’m going to be sick, I just know—”

He swallowed and closed his eyes tightly, begging all whom might be listening in and of sufficient higher power for an unlimited extension on his allotment of patience—as it was sorely stretched.

…Like his belly, confound it!

 

 

**[With Others… _Loads_ of Others]**

Dinner was Muggle. Fish and chip shop in Muggle Deeside (‘Just another short hop, mate,’ the Dog said and then Severus’s stomach was whirling queasily _yet again_ ) and Severus was never going to admit he was craving oil and salt and the flow of silly Muggle people on the high street. To and fro and rushing about their small lives—it was soothing. Perspective, was it?

Why ever did Black have to chew like a bloody god? An Adonis of fish-and-chips, his luscious lips smeared with suggestive oil?

Idly chewing, desperate for distraction, he attempted to envision himself with a pram, a giant metal padded carriage suitable for hauling infants, much like his mother had used for him when at the age of mewling. To see himself wrestling it down the sidewalks, into shops, over cobbles, through the press of people. It was a…ridiculous fancy, he admitted. But the babe would require airings and he wouldn’t always be able to stay safely huddled in his dungeons, would he?

Not and be any sort of reasonable parent. And the Dog…likely the Dog wouldn’t be about to help out…would he?

“What’re you thinking, luv?” Black tipped yet more vinegar on the diminishing pile of chips between them. “Tell me.”

“Stop that,” Severus ordered, frowning instantly. He’d no intentions of telling the nosy cur a thing until he had to. That he had to was the rub, yes. Bah! He frowned quellingly at the poor chips, sopping sodden and useless. “You’re swamping them, Black. Execrable.”

“Am not. Like ‘em this way. Soggy in the middle and crisp on the edges. Just as with…”

“Yuck,” Never let it be said Severus couldn’t make his feelings known. Black was a barbarian at the dinner table. “ _Not_ eating, then. Have them all now you’ve ruined them.”

“You should,” Black eyed him critically—up and down, to the point where Severus’s thickening waist was hidden by the cloth. Then he smiled, that easy grin, and winked at Severus disobligingly. “You’re looking peaked. I said so earlier, didn’t I? You need to eat… _love_.”

“Sod off. None of your business what I’m looking,” Severus sneered. That horrible man! How dare he drop endearments as if they were crumbs? It was—it was—

“And cease this pointless winding me up, Black,” he scolded. “We both know you’ve the taste of the common garden earthworm.”

…But he cast a glance at himself in the reflective plate glass of the shop window next door all the same. And then looked away immediately, vaguely shamed. His cheeks were flushed peony pink as a Fourth Year Witches’ on a first date; he’d a lazy glaze of smeared oil decorating his thinned lips. Hardly professional; hardly befitting. “Or eating. No, really, keep your eyes to yourself, animal. And I’m not your bloody ‘love’, either! Get a grip, alright!”

He jerked away altogether, offended. Perhaps not even with cause, but those bloody hormones—got him every time, they did, and more and more often.

Severus frowned down at his plate. This was hardly him at his best and most persuasive, was it? He’d…well, he’d have to try harder. No use in running Black off before he’d ever even informed of his upcoming fatherhood, was there?

…Besides, a child deserved both parents, right? Even if both were fairly useless at babies and not at all fit to be caretakers of such at the ripe old age of (ahem) nearing fifty.

“Oh, no, you don’t.”

Two ankles, booted in scuffed black leather, instantly clamped themselves round Severus’s one. So close he could feel the knobs of bone pressing into his, feel the heat as it curled up his shins to his calves.

“Stop that at once!” he hissed. Black leaned forward and leered—not stopping, no. “Let go!”

“No,” the Dog replied calmly, and chomped sharp white teeth on another horrid chip. “I want you to listen to me, Severus Snape. For once in your life, alright? I’ve something to say to you and now’s good a time as any.”

“Ah?”

Severus blanched; could feel all the blood draining out of his head. He went cold in his midsection, as if he’d swallowed an ice block and not a goodly portion of fast food. “Wh-what?” he snapped, attempting to rally. “What’s on your pitiful excuse for a mind, Dog? Do I even want to know?”

Black blinked at him, slowly. Rose to his feet abruptly, hooking his ankle to drag Severus along with him, which was not what was needed when Severus’s sense of balance was already screwed up by the baby he was carrying—the one he’d not yet managed to mention to Black.

“Right,” Black announced. “No more of this shite, Sev. No. More.”

“Oi!” he yelped, but Black had him by the shoulder. Not roughly, no, but it was clear he wasn’t going to be released without a struggle.

“Come on!” Black snarled, upper lip curled. “We’re not doing this here, you old fussbudget. Gods help me if I cause you to faint or something. _Come_.”

“What?! No—no, wait! _Wa_ —!”

 

 

**[And Then With Just The One…The Only]**

****

“Did you even _pay_ for that?” Severus demanded disagreeably, once he sorted he’s been dragged off to the parlour of Black’s awful old house. “Bloody thief, stealing our supper—those people—how could?”

“Stuff it, you ridiculous man. Come up with me!”

The infuriating Dog, it seemed, was out of patience with him. Finally.

It had only taken three months and five days. Exactly. Oh, also an unwanted pregnancy but that was alright, wasn’t it? It wasn’t unwanted all ‘round…no. Not by far.

Severus shivered in reaction; he’d always known it would come to this. Black would slay him, murder him in cold blood, remove his kneecaps from under him and likely solely for his sharp tongue and bad attitude, and then the whole wide world would forgive the puppy-eyed cur for it—la-di-dah, just so—and all because Black was _also_ a bloody hero of the last, past War and not only that a beloved Gryffindor (were they not all a pathetic crowd of self-absorbed fellow fans, then?) and then of course stupid Potter’s stupid godfather to boot! And he— _he_ would lay in his unmarked social graveyard, completely unmourned by anyone of importance, and Black would trot off, merry as grigs, and no doubt move on to shag some other poor unsuspecting Wiz—

“ _Arsehole_ ,” Black interrupted Severus’s terribly bleak and self-pitying musings by bodily hauling him up the creaky staircase. Severus noted instantly it was newly painted and polished—he smelt it, in fact; one of the by-products of being up the duff with a baby…baby…baby. The word echoed in his ringing head, damned Dog!) In fact, the whole house was done up from what he could see receding below him, gaze snaking curiously through open doors and whatnot—new paint and paper, the rugs cleaned—er, what?

“Huh?” he said stupidly, and noted the elf heads were missing. As was Black’s horrible, horrible mother, that scourge upon the earth in paint form. He’d used to haunt this house for the Order, hated it every time he came. To see it this way was astounding. He’d never believe d it possible, before….erm. Not that he’d ever thought of living in it or anything like. Just because Black had been there, trapped. Like a Dog in kennel. Oh…no. Not he. “Oi, Dog?”

But…he had to ask, really.

Curiosity was ever the burden of the intelligent Slytherin.

“What now, idiot man?” Black didn’t cease dragging him, not for an instant. “Are you finally come crawling out of your little hole, Sev? Going to talk to me, then? Converse? Well, thank Merlin for minor miracles! I’d about given up hope.”

“You—you, ah.” Severus smelt lemon oil and lavender; couldn’t miss the new runner. Very nice, it was, too. Oriental. In the spirit of newness, of fresh starts, he’d refrain from his usual riposte, then. He huffed. “Redecorated?”

“You are blind as a post, Severus.”

He was treated to a dark-eyed look of pure scorn. It blistered him for a half-second, just enough for him to blush uncomfortably, before Black was racing up the stairs again and dragging his unwilling guest with him.

“Yes! Of course I did—what _did_ you expect? I’d just let this pass, unremarked? Do nothing? And don’t dawdle like that. Come along, you great nuisance—I’ve things to show you.”

“Oh, but—wait, what?” Severus yanked on his wrist, attempting to take it back, but the Dog had a very decent grip on his favoured bone. “What d’you mean, show me—oof!”

A second set of stairs loomed above them—did this house never end?—and Severus was starting to puff with effort. Already. It only went to show he wasn’t the man he once was…he was rather more, now. Twenty pound more, precisely, all located in one certain place.

“Up, up!” Black urged, not even pausing in the slightest. Till, he did, which cause Severus to slam into the Dog’s spine, sending them both staggering. “Sev?”

“Oh, my…” he squeaked, falling just the merest bit leeward. Dog grabbed at him; he laid a comforting palm across his vulnerable belly and blew out a noisy huff, so that Black instantly firmed his death grip on Severus’s elbow joint.

“Sev? Luv, you okay there? Too much, was it? I’m sorry, truly I am.”

They’d come to a panting halt on the landing. Severus stared about him, a little wildly, and finally let his gaze settle on Black. Black, who looked to be very het up over something; Black, who looked to be…highly dangerous, dressed all in his trademark black. And, no doubt because of it, sexy as sin on a stick.

And all Severus could think of—all that was in his empty head—was sex. Sex with Black. Up meant bedrooms and bedrooms meant sex and Black was sex, walking, and no—just no.

He was in no condition to even consider Sex With Black. Look where it had brought him, before!

“Oh, no. No, you’re not,” Severus blurted. He couldn’t help himself, his lips had taken leave of his mind. It was all Voice now, wasn’t it? He’d been over taken, the Voice was in control. Merlin help him, then. “You’re not using sex appeal on me, you idiot dog. I won’t have it, you hear? I won’t. Not going anywhere else. We stay here. Or tea—downstairs. You may offer me tea, like a civilized man.”

The Dog kissed him, just lightly—a brush of lips only, and Severus had to stomp down all that swelled up within him and stand stark still in his grasp.

“…Don’t,” he managed. “This is…this is difficult enough, already. Tea—I just want tea. Tea…would be...pleasant.”

The Dog smiled. Hung Severus’ heart on a brilliant star in passing, by the bye. It was…earth-shattering, effortless—not nice.

“I’m not about to make it any more difficult, love,” he murmured, the skin round his eyes crinkling kindly. “I’m trying—not very well, it seems, but yes, _trying_ —to make it easier. On you— _for_ you. So…come up?”

“Oh.”

Severus stopped breathing for a long moment. He was rather in shock. That tone of voice, used for him? Really?

“Yes?” Dog looked ever so hopeful.

“Yes.” _Oh, bloody hell!_

They went up. Severus would’ve allowed himself to go anywhere the Dog decided (he’d never tell Black that, but still!) but Black only seemed to want him to keep on climbing.

When they reached the third landing at last, Black stopped him with a touch to his shoulder and stared deep, deep into Severus’s eyes.

“Please like this, alright? I did the best I could. At least act like you do, alright?”

“Oh...kay. Yes, alright.” Severus sneered. “Get on with it, then. Show me what you’re showing me and be _done_ with it, Dog.” He sighed, resigned. “I beg you.”

P’raps it was all the quick-change, march-step, Black-induced madness, coming as it did so soon on the heels of Severus’s little breakdown (Slytherins didn’t normally succumb, but damn and blast—he was pregnant!) Whatever; he was feeling mellow enough, nearly in a drugged-out state, and the thought was that the Dog could do what he might like. Would do, any road. But…Severus would allow it. He would, gods help him.

“No need to beg for anything, love. Not from me…unless you want to.”

The door they stood before was ripped open with no fanfare.

“As I’m not adverse to a little kink, now and again. Hey, lookee-here, Sev, what we’ve got. Nursery,” Black announced, bending into a graceful bow and waving Severus right on through. “Like it?”

 

 

…When Severus came to, he was propped in the rocking chair, draped with a duckling-printed duvet and there was a book open in his shrinking lap. Black was staring at him as if he alone was responsible for all the world’s many mysteries and Severus could only blink back, sleepy and astounded.

_Speechless_.

There were many—many—ducklings. On the walls, the carpeting, the border. On the lamp, the go-round above the duckling embroidered baby quilt, which was neatly tucked in under the corners of the maple wood infant bed, which was hung all about with diaphanous yellow-print ducklings as well.

_Dogs must very much_ like _ducklings_ , was the first thing Severus thought of, inconsequently. He shuddered immediately, sickened to be even be entertaining such a fatuous notion. _How odd_.

Black took his shiver as a cue to point at the open book and ask him a question that was absolutely apropos of nothing—not a duckling-infested room and not Severus’s sudden fainting spell upon viewing it, certainly.

He scowled horribly at Black’s sparking eyes and grinning visage and instantly felt a million times better.

“Sod off,” he said, albeit fondly. “Fool.” The ducklings (on the lampshade, stenciled on the chair rail, embossed in the eggshell-white wallpaper, in the shape of golden-yellow tasselling, hung about the curtains—bloody everywhere) immediately fascinated him again.

“Right, right,” the Dog didn’t pay the slightest heed, only tugged at Severus’s lax hand and patted the book with the other.

“Look!”

He had not known Black had been so adversely affected by Azkaban. Here was proof positive the mad was utterly starkers.

“See?” The Dog juggled his kneecap urgently, rudely interrupting Severus’s reverie. “Here it _is_ , Sev. Clear as day, black and white, all nice and printed out so’s you can take a breather. Don’t have to tell me a damned thing, Sev. Really. S’alright.”

“What’s alright, then? What are you on about?”

Severus peeled his eyeballs off the preponderance of fuzzy yellow everything and glanced to the book, which was old, unwieldy and had sharp-edged corners, ones that had been worn down with age. The spine was cracked under his (unconsciously?) clutching fingers, the pages exuded the scent of quite elderly parchment. And magic, much magic.

“Hmm. Seems…familiar.”

Clearly this was no ordinary book.

“What this chatter, Bla—er?”

**It behooveth the Wizard to be moste chary of Love** , the passage read, the one beginning right where Black was poking an insistent finger. **A Wizard hath much to fear from this Wilde Magic, up to and including the result of unexpected and untoward procreation** —

“Ghngh!” Severus choked. Of course it was familiar; he’d read the exact same passage very recently; just this morning, actually, in the Restricted Section, but contained in a much later edition of—yes, he saw, clamping his finger to hold his place and raising the text to peer at the spine— **The Variable and Munificent Effects of Wilde Magic** , by Sir Edgar Cedric DeDiesel-Lisle.

The chapter heading was as follows: **Wizards Afflicted with Untoward Male Pregnancies, A Short Exposition of the Factual Evidence Thereto Supporting & Explicating this Moste Magnificent of Rarities. **

“Read the rest, mate,” Black jostled his knee, whiny as a Firstie with a re-written essay. “Come on. Good shite, yeah? It’s all there, really.”

**It is Merlin’s honest Truth that, in certain situations,** Sir Cedric’s words ran on, **a Wizard, though perhaps surpassing in his manhood, when subjected to the blandishments of another and most faire specimen of manly goodnesse, shall conceive, in a most natural and pleasing coincidence, and find himself with child.**

“Egad! Where’d you—what the—Black? How’d did you come by this, of all things?”

“In the family Library, dickhead; don’t be obtuse. But…keep reading, love. Gets better, yeah? Not through yet, are you?”

Black plonked his chin on Severus’s kneecap and grinned lazily up at him, like a hound expecting a decent petting. It was all Severus could so not to instantly bury both his hands in that hair.

Black-blue, like a raven’s wing, and now his own silly head of hairs matched its silky beauty, a least a little. Only because he’d found he was prone to scrub up all that much more frequently, what with a Dog in his bed half the time—no, more than half.

…Though, come to think, the Dog seemed to like him just as well when he was reeking of armadillo bile and his long lank tresses were flat with sweat, dust and noxious fumes.

Dog clearly had no discernment, whatsoever. ‘Course, neither did he, by logical extension.

Severus sighed and kept reading—or rather, re-reading. Sir Cedric was quite in transports over the wonders of Wild Magic, it seemed:

**This should not, in fact, be a fearful consequence---** the words drew his wondering gaze, like moth to flame— **nor one for alarum, but instead a moment of great joyousness and an Omen of a measure conferred of good fortune ever after by the beneficent Fates, contrarie to the oftimes foolish opinion of the general populace. Such rare events, arising as they do from the ignition of a combination of great and enduring Passion, extremely sincere emotion and a loving and mutual respect, not to mention a huge and concentrated vortex of Wilde Magic centred in the Fleshe, are above all to be prized by both affected Wizards as proof thereof and after and for all mockers to see, that their Love is both fruitful and plentiful, by any other’s lesser standards.**

“Isn’t that nice, Sev?” Black asked innocently, grinning. “Means we’d better gear up for a round two, though, when this one’s out of the oven.” He tapped on Severus’s swollen ankle through the boot leather. “Actually, you know? I would rather like a large family. It’s a big house, this one.”

Severus blinked furiously fast, dry lips parted to exhale all the breath in his lungs; it was all he could do. Dog wanted a bloody litter, then?

He’d kill him!

But no, for **‘the blessed Wizard who carries the child must therefore be assured they are indeed the focus of great and karmic Good Will, that the very Cosmos hath chosen them to be so fecund, and that—and this cannot be emphasized oft enough for my taste—above all, their Love run True, and is always both met and exceeded by the other Wizard.**

****“Oh…my.”

Oh, yes. Alright—he wouldn’t kill him, Dog. Because it was just this morning he’d read this exact passage full through, tucked away alone in the dim recesses of the Library with his wavering tallow, and hadn’t believed a bloody word of it, not one. Much as he’d have really like to. And now he was here, in Black’s ancestral pile, buffeted by a plethora of baby ducklings, Black drooling fondly on his knee, speaking of reusing the ducklings ad infinitum (Black had no control, really) and suddenly Sir Cedric’s words much…more…viable.

“Mmm,” the Dog muttered, sniffing away at Severus’s crotch while he was waiting on Severus. “You smell good. Sandalwood, is it? Umm…got through it , yet? Hurry up, do.”

“…Er? Black?” Severus closed the book with a snap, and raised his gaze to meet the leering cur’s mischievous glint. “D’you—have you—are you certain you, ah…?”

“Follow?” Black chortled, which was exactly what he would do when faced with a serious (oh, Merlin, Severus begged his inner voice, please- please-please no more fucking punning! Now _now_!) almost-question…for Severus admitted his query had contained no verb, no clause, even if the subject was clear enough. “Of course I do, love. It’s effing obvious, isn’t it? What happened with us? Doesn’t take a genius to sort _that_. Now, come along with me—there’s more to show you yet.”

“Wha-wait—where _now_ , damn it?”

“Bedroom,” Black tossed succinctly over his one leather-jacketed shoulder, and Severus went along after, in bloody two-step as the Dog had him in such close proximity. “I’ve redone that, too. S’nice. All green now. You’ll like it.”

“Er…right.”

And bedroom it was, with Black settling a slightly shell-shocked Severus into a mountain of pillows and stripping him methodically of his new robes, new denims and everything else. Clambering atop him (very carefully for Dog, Severus noted) and snogging Severus into the mattress.

“I like you here,” the cur announced breezily once he’s stopped eating Severus’s face. “It’s…it’s.” He stopped short, perplexed. “It’s?”

“…Unthought of?” Severus offered up hesitantly. “Er…completely as cracked as you are, Black?”

“Yes!” Black grinned (what a total loon; touched in the upper works and Severus had always thought so, too; he couldn’t say different.) “Yes, exactly. Perfect. Perfectly nutters. I like it. Suits, you know.”

“Ah.”

“Well,” Black remarked, shoving a pillow under Severus hips, “should we get on with it? You’re probably half-mad by now. I know I am. Wanna shag you, something rotten. You’re a fit man, Sev, ‘specially when you’re all broody like this. I like those dark, angry-at-the-world blokes. Should’ve knocked you up much sooner.”

“Ah—hah?” Severus, gods help him, actually gargled, he was so taken aback. “Excu--?”

“Mmm, yes,” the Dog growled and lowered himself gently onto Severus’s taller frame, kissing any bits that happened to meet his smiling lips. “Yes. Was going to, actually, but died first—sorry. Inconvenient , that. Couldn’t be helped, though.”

“Right. Right.” Severus could only nod and shrug. “Um…quite.”

“Glad I’m back now—very. Get to do this,” he squeezed Severus cock like a pro. “And this.” Scrambled down to lick at the throbbing red tip of it, sucking off saline as he went. “And this, too. You have such a nasty mouth on you, Sev; pretty lips, poison tongue. I love to make it say things you’ll hate me for later.”

“Evil…git!”

“Um…hmm-hmm. Say ‘I love you, Sirius,’ Sev. That’d be a nice one to hear.”

“N-no!”

“No, really.” His cock was engulfed to the hilt and the cur wriggled his tongue all about it, pressing on the vein beneath and generally reducing Severus to incoherency. It popped out of his mouth with unholy slurp when at last he looked up to cast a considering eye at Severus’s stunned expression, smiling sweetly. “I want you to. Please.”

Severus gave him the stink-eye. It wasn’t much—he _was_ naked and he _was_ very erect and Black _did_ have him at his mercy, the fucker, but…he felt he should, on principle.

“Sod off. M’not an idiot, Dog.”

“Can make you say it,” Black grinned happily, slobbering away at Severus’s flinching belly. “Want to bet on it?”

Severus closed his eyes. Considered. Long and hard, because he was Slytherin, even hormonal as fuck, he was true to his House and Dog was tricky and full of wily guile for a Gryffindor. And Dog could (indeed) induce in him the urge to do things he normally wouldn’t, yes.

Silly things, like love someone. Remarkable things, like conceive. Amazing things, like… _believe_.

So…clearly there was only one logical response to the cur’s challenge:

“No,” Severus sighed. “No, it’s a foregone conclusion, wanker. Pointless bet to engage in. Not going there.”

“Yep,” Black murmured, pressing his lined handsome face into Severus’s swollen belly. “It is. And, Sev?”

“Hmm? Now what, Black? I thought you were doing something useful down there, so why in Salazar’s sake d’you keep jabbering on at me, pray tell? Do cease distracting me.”

“I love you, too, you know.”

“Oh! Oh… _bah_! **Idiot**!”

Finite

 

*SWMW w/BB stands for the following single’s advertisement acronym: SingleWhiteMaleWizard w/Black’sBaby. And please do pardon in advance the horrid, horrid pun. I mean no offense; I am simply born this way.  



End file.
